CHAPTER NINETEEN

‘How about cheese on toast? You make good cheese on toast.’

I’m staring at Adam in our kitchen as he sips his tea. Adam, whose biggest culinary dilemmas involve whether to go all out and have the vindaloo, or to christen his bacon sarnie with red or brown sauce. I think he owns a saucepan. I think at present it’s handling the overflow from a leaking cistern. He’s peering over at the list on the kitchen door. Everything from tuna pasta bake to lamp chops to chicken stir fries to jacket potatoes with baked beans (Ted’s contribution). Yes, I can see that now. I prick a baking potato and stand in front of the oven for an hour reading a magazine as it cooks. That would make for great television. Still, at least it would fill in the time as opposed to the ten minutes it’d take me to whip up cheese on toast.

‘No need for sarcasm.’

Adam looks up incredulous at the thought.

‘Shit, Jools. No, you ask Ben. When we were little you always did the best cheese on toast. It was always crisp and you could hold it. Mine’s always …’

‘Flaccid?’

I laugh at him as he creases his eyes at me and goes back to reading the list. It’s been here for a week, since the gauntlet was thrown down, in front of the nation no less. Twelve suggestions later and we’re still no closer to finding something in my basic cooking repertoire that I’ll be able to cook in front of millions. Maybe cheese on toast is the way forward, tomato slices to boost the nutritional content, a splosh of Worcestershire sauce, and a dusting of mixed herbs so it looks vaguely well presented. Talk about grasping at straws.

Following my foolish, impulsive need to prove a point and commit social suicide on live television, this week has bordered on the insane. Next to the usual juggling act that is my life, I have the papers debating about this epic battle with one saying it has the potential to be the TV moment of the year. Is that a proper award? Would I be able to attend a ceremony, wear an inappropriately cut Lipsy dress, and rub shoulders with the cast of Corrie? For the most part, the papers have been encouraging. McCoy’s bullying tactics are being made more evident to the critics and viewing public, and his approval ratings (whatever those are) have plummeted since. Even Dad has mentioned the McCoy sauces in his local Tesco are part of a two for one promotion. Still, he takes the opportunity to use this bit of public attention well.

In the past week I’ve counted six interviews with him talking about everything from his public support for meals on wheels being made healthier, to his new business venture – a new line in non-stick baking tins in his own patented colour of McCoy maroon. Kitty is also in on the act, waving her baby foods about and also, deliberately Luella tells me, wearing loose clothing so people will conjecture if she’s pregnant again (the answer is no; she’s still healing from her last stomach shaping operation). Most days I wonder what I was thinking, others I ask Luella if we could ask Gordon Ramsay to don a wig and fake boobs and take my place. For now though, it consumes my life, my house, my family. If I have a moment of clarity on a busy day, the thought creeps over me and starts to throw me into a panic. Because it’s there in my mental things to focus on list today, along with cutting the twins’ toenails, squeezing a blackhead on my chin, weaning Millie off her bottle, making three school play costumes, and fixing my relationship with my husband. That’s all.

‘Ben’s going to fucking freeze out there.’ Adam gestures over to the end of the garden where Ben nervously puffs away on a cigarette (that better be a cigarette), kicking old sandpit toys. Both brothers have been more regular fixtures at the house since the whole business with our mother has reared its ugly head. Not that I mind at all – though completely different, we’ve always had each other’s backs, yet we seem unable to know how to deal with anything. Adam I worry less about, yet Ben seems to internalise all that worry. You see it today in the way he jogs from side to side and inhales between his teeth. I watch him staring at an old, unpainted fence panel, his baby face masked in thick slivers of cloudy confusion, and ache to hold him like a big sister should. He approaches the back door and I pretend not to have been staring.

‘So, where’s Dad taken Gia?’

‘Tea dance at the church hall.’

Adam pulls a face and roots through my bread bin.

‘One day that’ll be you … now hands off my crumpets, they’re tomorrow’s breakfast.’ He doesn’t listen and heads for the toaster. I hear the distant thunder of steps as Matt attempts to dress the kids. Ben hovers by the door.

‘Where is your effing coat? You’ll catch your death.’

Ben doesn’t respond. I glance over and he’s looking at my wonky kitchen clock.

‘Ben?’ He’s quiet as Adam rustles through the cupboards looking for jam.

‘Are you guys free now? Just for a little bit.’ His face is slightly ashen, a little despondent. Adam nods. I go over to give Ben a hug and feel his head rest against my shoulder. ‘I’m really sorry, Jools,’ he whispers into me.

I peel his body away from me and look down at his face. Adam stands there clutching a jar of strawberry conserve, unwilling to get involved in the embrace but knowing something is wrong.

‘What’s up? Are we having more talks about she-who-can-not-be-named?’

I snigger a little imagining her as Voldermort’s older sister. Ben looks over at Adam. ‘Are the kids going to be around?’

I nod. ‘I can get Matt to take them to the park. What is this about?’

Ben puts his head around the kitchen door. ‘No, no, no … it’s probably best they’re here. I mean …’

‘Ben, spill.’

And then it’s like magic. A doorbell. ‘I really am sorry. Seriously. But you said you didn’t mind so I rang the newspaper and they put me in touch … and well, we’ve been talking …’

‘Ben!’ Adam and I literally shriek in unison and pop our heads around the door. ‘What the fuck have you done?’ Adam crumples his crumpet in his fist. A shadowy figure hangs by the front door and my heart doesn’t stop. It goes into some strange somersault mode where I can feel it resonate in my eyeballs. ‘You didn’t. Seriously? My house? You invited her to my house?’

This isn’t supposed to happen here. It’s supposed to happen on a pier. In the rain. Not now when my monologue isn’t prepared, when my hair isn’t brushed, when my toilet isn’t cleaned, when my kids … I can’t think. The doorbell goes again.

‘Jools! Get the door!’ I hear footsteps on the stairs and recognise the light, skippy gait as Hannah. No, no, no, no. I run into the hall.

‘Han, I need something upstairs. Please get it for me.’

‘What?’

‘A pen. Any pen. Just get me a pen.’

She screws her face up and retreats up to her room. I panic. The shadowy figure has seen me. My voice goes into pitchy, sing-song mode, ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ I dart back into the kitchen. Adam maniacally clutches a box of Cheerios for help and stuffs them into his mouth hoping if he fills his mouth enough, or I guess chokes, then he won’t have to deal with this. ‘I’m not doing this, end of. You bugger for making me do this. You little bugger. You tell her I hate her.’

‘Sure. Any other messages you want to pass on?’

‘No, that will do for now. Bugger.’ He pushes past me, knowing the only escape is upstairs. Deep down, somewhere, there’s little Adam who used to stare at Mum’s picture on the mantle and tell her about his day. But today he has been ambushed. We have both been ambushed. I glare at Ben. This was never going to be a good idea. Ever. Why now? I can’t.

We shuffle to attention, hearing the muffle of footsteps upstairs and voices through the wall. Ben’s heartbeat radiates through the air like sonar.

‘Benny?’

Shit. Matt. No. Not yet. ‘Nope. Matt. Campbell. Sorry you’ve had to wait. I thought … wait, you’re …’

I can see Matt’s face now: Firstly, you thought I was Ben? Wrong hair colour, wrong age, but you’ve thought I’m six years younger than I really am so I’ll take that. But you look familiar. You kind of look like my wife.

‘Dorothy. Juliet and Benny’s mother.’

Then nothing. I wonder what’s going on in her head. Is she being rude in her silence? Are they hugging, shaking hands? Maybe Matt’s staring her out. I hear him hesitate before remembering he’s the gentlemanly sort and telling her to come in. ‘I didn’t know you were expected but I guess it’s a pleasure to meet … I think I’ll go and get …’ Ben looks at me and takes my hand. I follow him.

She’s how she looked in the newspaper so there are no big surprises there. But she is shorter than I remembered her, her jewellery is brash and I suspect Elizabeth Duke cheap. She’s wearing khaki slacks and black ballet pumps, a floral shirt, and pashmina. And well, not ill like I might have expected from all the sullen photos she’d posed for in the papers. Matt stands behind her holding her handbag and raincoat, looking a little like he might be in shock. I see him and giggle nervously. But I can’t look at her. This wasn’t my plan, it was Ben’s and he doesn’t hesitate. He launches himself at her and hugs her in the same way that Ben does most people, with genuine heart, arms wrapped round like an orangutan. I see his body shudder as he’s hung over her shoulders and my eyes glaze over.

‘Oh, don’t cry, love.’

She looks over at me.

‘Juliet.’

I nod, still silent, feeling too much to want to launch myself at her lest I knock her to the floor and bang her head against the floor repeatedly. Matt sees me, confused, then glares up to the ceiling understanding why Adam might be hiding with the boys. He looks concerned. I look lost. She’s here.

‘I’ll get some tea on, maybe?’ he says.

The next five minutes are a cloud because I block myself out of the conversation and the room. I don’t want this to be a part of any memory in my head, I don’t want to betray Dad, I don’t want to say anything I’m not prepared to say. I focus on aspects of the room: how that stain got on the sofa, the film of dust over the television. There’s that missing bit of puzzle I opened the vacuum cleaner to find. Ben just launches into his line of questioning, feeling so happy to be able to tell her about what he’s been up to; university and life goals. He’s healing over those little life cracks that have made his foundations so unstable for so long.

‘Jools, Mum asked you something.’

I come back into the room.

‘Where are the kids?’

Matt comes in with tea and biscuits and shouts up the stairs. I have an urge to barricade the door and not let my children see her. Does she deserve to see them? I’m not even ready for this. They thunder down the stairs, loitering by the doorframe while Matt encourages them to enter. The twins bounce into the room while Hannah stays by the door. Matt looks over at the twins and nods his head encouraging them to come forward.

‘Boys, we have a guest.’

‘I’m Jake. Who are you?’

‘Jake – I’m your grandmother. You can call me Dot.’

The boys seem a little perplexed. Hannah’s head swings around, glaring at me.

‘We thought you were dead,’ says Ted coolly. A little bit of tea bubbles out of my nose. ‘That’s what Uncle Adam told us.’

‘Well, she’s not dead is she,’ adds Matt.

‘She could be a zombie,’ says Jake. Matt has no response. My mum smiles politely. Not a zombie, more a ghost.

Ted retrieves something from his back pocket.

‘Well, I made this for Mum but you can have it. It’s a flower. It’s made out of toilet paper.’

I hold my breath for a bit, wondering if Adam fashioned it upstairs and may have rubbed his backside with said paper before telling the twins to give it to her. But it’s the same flowers they were taught to make for Mother’s Day last year, with little stalks made out of glittery pipe cleaners. My mother takes them, looking very surprised at the gesture, and pats their heads. Hannah’s reaction is more cautious. She stands by the door and carefully studies the faces of everyone in the room. Matt goes upstairs to retrieve Millie.

‘I got you kids some presents.’

This makes the boys perk up and they jut their heads out, staring at her as she goes for her handbag in the corridor. Hannah comes over and sits in my lap.

‘Honey, what’s up? You OK?’

She nods and takes a chunk of my hair to twizzle in her fingers. Ben puts a hand to my kneecap. He looks elated, free of anything that may have sat on his shoulders for that moment too long. She returns with little immaculately wrapped boxes. Cars for the boys, hairclips for the girls. The boys tug at me to open them up, loyalties bought. Hannah is taking her time though.

‘Do you like them, Hannah?’

‘I suppose. Thank you very much.’

Hannah smiles at her while Millie is brought in for inspection. My mum puts the hairclips in her hand.

‘You shouldn’t do that.’

The room freezes except for the boys, who zoom their cars over the sofa and across the skirting. Ben looks over at Hannah, I squeeze her body tightly.

‘Millie eats hairclips and earrings and stuff. You shouldn’t do that.’

I smile and nod, taking the present off my mum. My hand skimming past hers to feel her skin, still Fairy soft like it used to be. I flinch. Mum feels it instantly and looks up at me. Ben pushes the plate of biscuits over to Mum as she goes to pour the tea.

‘How do you take it, Benny?’

Hannah interrupts.

‘Two sugars with lots of milk. Mum has hers with one sugar.’

Her tone is indignant and she crosses her arms. I hold her close to me.

‘Han, why don’t you, Daddy, and the boys go upstairs for a bit?’

The boys hear this and scamper away but Hannah doesn’t seem to budge. Matt looks over at me. Where do the boundaries of common courtesy and allowing someone to just be able to have a natural reaction to someone merge? She doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to but her unwillingness to befriend my mother makes me ask to what extent she can read the papers or at least has picked up on what’s been happening in the house. Ben urges Hannah to come and sit with him and she sits in his lap as he cradles her head underneath his chin. Matt holds on to Millie, who’s staring curiously at my mother as she nibbles away on a biscuit.

‘So where’s Adam today?’

I interrupt Hannah before she has a chance to say he’s upstairs in the boys’ bedroom. Ben reaches over to Mum, nestling his hand in hers. I simultaneously admire and despise how he can be so tactile with her.

‘He’s not ready, Mum. I think he’s going to need more time before …’

Before what, Ben? There’s something in Ben’s tone which makes me think he’s talking about a time after all this. When we meet again? When we sit down together around a table and forget certain life events didn’t have majorly altering consequences? Never mind Adam not being ready, I don’t think I am. My little brother has well and truly ambushed me and made me confront my biggest fear, the saddest part of my life story. Here, in my own house. Surrounded by kids I have to explain things to, a husband who doesn’t know what’s going on, and an overwhelming urge to go medieval on her ass. What is Ben saying? Does he want her to be a part of his life further on from now? I thought he had questions. I have many but they have no form or structure and if I attempt to speak now, I’m fearful they’ll just come out in tearful Neanderthal monosyllables. I’m studying Hannah’s hair in another bid to distract me. Is that a nit or a bit of fluff?

‘Well, it was nice to be invited round, to be able to see you all after all this time and tell you …’

Eeeks. Cloying moment here. Mainly because you weren’t invited by me, at least. But what do you need to tell us? You’re sorry? If you could you would turn back time and do everything differently? I am tempted to hold my hands up to my ears like earmuffs. Ben seems to be on tenterhooks, holding on to her every word.

‘I thought it was time I came here and was totally upfront with you. About why I left. I mean, I have to apologise for the papers. So much of that article was untrue but … the part about wanting to be in touch. That bit was correct.’

Ben nods. I want to ask about motives, money, betrayal. Still, I say nothing. Ben pipes up.

‘I guess the first thing I wanted to know is if you are all right now. We didn’t know if you were still ill or in remission. The papers didn’t make it clear.’

She pauses.

‘I had breast cancer. But they caught it early, stage one. I’m better now, thanks.’

She makes it sound like a touch of flu. The article made it sound as though she’d been on her deathbed and we’d been at home playing Scrabble not really giving two hoots.

‘I guess Jools and I both … I mean, if we’d known, then we would have liked to have lent some support.’

Ben grabs my kneecap, hoping he can get me to nod along. Would I? I guess. My heart is not completely made out of stone. I think.

‘Oh, well. Brian and the boys were there and we got by. But thank you for saying that.’

And that is when the room freezes. Like a big giant tableau. Brian with the David Bellamy beard we knew about, but there was something lobbed on the end of that sentence. And the boys. Ben looks over at me. I look over at Matt.

‘Which boys?’ says Ben

‘Well, I … thought you knew. Scott and Craig, my other sons.’

She dives into her handbag to retrieve her phone, scrolling through menus, then holds a photo up to Ben.

‘So this is us in Turkey last year; that’s Brian and Scott and Craig. I think he looks a lot like you, Benny.’

I can’t seem to move my face. The colour drains out of Ben’s and Hannah’s little hand slips into mine and grasps my fingers tightly like barbed wire. Who? What?

‘You mean your father never told you?’

Ben and I are on mute. Matt steps inside the room.

‘Ummm, I don’t think Frank did, no.’

Her tone becomes quite matter of fact, almost like she’s telling us what she had for breakfast.

‘I mean, it was the hardest choice I’ve ever had to make. Leaving you all and starting anew. But I loved Brian, he was my soulmate, the person I was supposed to be with. I couldn’t stay here knowing my heart wanted to be elsewhere. So I left. I didn’t want to make things hard for your dad and I’m sorry about the pain I caused him but I thought the best thing I could do was to leave you with him. I loved you kids but …’

Leave us with him? Like a consolation prize? I say the first thing I’ve said to her since she got here.

‘But you loved him more.’

She looks down at the picture.

‘A year later we had Scott and Craig and moved to Suffolk. I never forgot about you lot but I think it worked out for the best. You all seemed happy. I was happy. I left it at that.’

Ben can’t suppress his emotion any more and tears rain down his chin, falling as little black dots all over his jeans. I can’t quite believe what she’s saying. My breath just sits loose in my mouth, neurones fire anger, hate, fury emotions through my skull. Get out of my house. How were we happy without a mother for a majority of our childhood? And she was happy? Fucking good for her. Happy without us. That’s just great. Because happiness and us as your kids is surely something that can’t co-exist. God, even if new love beckoned elsewhere, she could have made some attempt to still have us as part of her life, to not have it engrained into our skulls that we made someone so sad with their lot in life that we forced them out of it. Yet I can’t tell her this. Matt looks over at us and is also at a loss for words.

‘Awww, Benny. I didn’t want to upset you. The boys are keen to get to know you. I’m willing to build bridges so you and your brothers can be friends. This is our place in Turkey, you’re welcome any time.’

I still can’t talk. Because this wasn’t even about abandoning the three children she already had, this was about replacing them. Ben who was always the baby was now lumbered in the middle somewhere. Hannah sees how upset he is and turns to throw her hands around his neck. Ben has no option but to hold on to her. I sit there still taking it all in. We’re all silent for a moment. Until one person dares speak.

‘His name is Uncle Ben. No one calls him Benny. If you were his mummy, you’d know that.’

Air rushes up my nostrils as she says it. Ben doesn’t respond. Matt looks mortified.

‘Hannah! Upstairs now!’

‘It’s all right, think we’re both gonna go,’ announces Ben, and he bundles Hannah away as they both exit the room. My mum follows them with her eyes and I watch Hannah give her evils as she exits. Now I’m sitting here with my husband not knowing where to look and what he should be doing. And my mother.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset anyone.’

I still can’t bring myself to talk to or at her. I look down at my hands, fiddling with the creases in my fingers, studying the dirt caked into my fingernails. No, to drop a bombshell like that on us after twenty years, of course that wouldn’t have upset us. We sat here like lemons, almost apologising to you about not being there when you were ill, and now you sit here defiant that abandoning your children twenty years ago was all right. You were in love, that excuses everything. There’s nothing about how sorry you are, how we are, or any questions pertaining to our schooldays, our graduations, our relationships. She just swans in and tells us life’s fine and dandy for her because it’s all new and we’re not part of it. She turns to Matt.

‘Matthew. I just wanted to let them know the truth. After all this time, I thought they’d be able to deal with it.’

The air, dry and raspy, rises from my throat.

‘My husband’s name is Matteo.’

It’s only been in the papers every week, if she’d bothered to read anything about me. She studies my face, frozen with shock.

‘That’s Italian, isn’t it? That’s nice.’

Matt nods slowly.

‘If you were my mother you’d know that.’

She stares over at me and for once I look her straight in the eye. I see so many things. I see Adam’s forehead and Ben’s lips. I see that little mole about an inch into her chin. The eyes. The eyes are mine. I see a lot of things, but mostly a woman. Just someone I used to know.

‘I wasn’t happy, Juliet. I was stifled, verging on depressed, but couldn’t see a way out. No one needs a mother like that.’

‘No. We just needed a mother.’

I stare at her, taking in every word and every millimetre of her face so I can preserve this memory for ever. Because I know now that this is the last time I will ever see her. I’m not sure if I had a memory of her before then that pertained to that. Just a jumble of images, all the good ones that I plastered on to some sort of collective montage that made me think there was a good and valid reason as to why she left. But there wasn’t. Only her own fear of an unfulfilled life, a quick get-out clause based on instinct and lust that meant she abandoned three young children. It was selfish, it lacked any true thought for those she was supposed to have loved and had a responsibility for. There’s anger simmering away in there but also a fair amount of disappointment. It turns into tears that roll bulbous down my cheeks. Matt looks at them and I see him get her coat from the rack in the hallway.

‘Dorothy. I think it’s best if you left.’

She shrugs her shoulders; the nonchalance almost overpowering me to pick up a teacup and chuck it at her head. But she picks up her coat and takes one last look at me before she leaves.

‘You’re doing very well for yourself, Juliet. With all that cooking stuff. You and your brothers are a credit to your father.’

And then she goes. The door clicks softly, I hear her footsteps down the path and then all I feel are Matt’s arms clamped around me as I sit in a ball on the living room floor dousing his shoulders with tears.

Later that night, Dad returns to find me in the kitchen clutching on to a glass full of whisky and flat Coke. Matt is upstairs sleeping with the kids while Adam and Ben have adjourned to the nearest bar/pub to get plastered. The news has come as no huge shock to Adam, who expected the worst and might as well have told us so, but Ben has understandably not taken the news well. He had his arms out wide like a great big love-filled albatross only to be taken down over the high seas. He’s now quiet, withdrawn, not the Ben I know. Adam’s solution is thus to fill him to the brim with alcohol to numb the shock, or at least help him to pull so he can replace these feelings with regret from a dodgy one-night stand.

Dad comes in and puts on the kettle.

‘So guess who came around today?’

‘You finally got that gas man round?’

‘Nope, guess again.’

‘Not ’effing McCoy?’

I shake my head.

‘Dorothy.’

He doesn’t turn to face me. He stands there resting his head slightly against the kitchen cabinets.

‘Ben ambushed me. In my own house.’ He remains silent. ‘Invited her round for tea.’

He gets two mugs out of the cupboard.

‘Did you know about the other two?’

He looks over at me and returns to watching the kettle bubble and hiss.

‘About the other two boys? I’d heard.’

I want to ask him why he’d never said anything but I know. Why kick us when we were already down? He did it to protect us, to not invoke any more hate and bad blood between us. Still, we were adults. Well, I was. Don’t know about the other two.

‘How was she?’

‘Not sure I was part of the conversation for long enough to find out.’

‘Are you seeing her again?’

He says it a little resigned, like one hour with our mother would mean everything between us was going to have changed and we’d head off with her to go and play happy bigger families. I shake my head resolutely.

‘I don’t think I will be. Plus, who needs more brothers? Two is enough for me.’

He smiles. There is a huge wall of emotion that I need to knock down, but not here, not now. The woman has taken up far too much of my time this evening. Given she’s someone I have no love for, who has drummed up nothing in me tonight except bile and tears, I just want rid of her in my brain. Tonight, I’ve realised being a mother is more than nature, the fact I lived inside her once. The relationship is symbiotic, it needs nurturing, it needs care and attention that she stopped providing twenty years ago. Dad comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder.

‘Where are they? How’s Ben?’

‘Not good. They’re out drinking’

He inhales deeply and closes his eyes.

‘I just didn’t know how to go about it with you three. I did what I thought was best. I always hoped she’d come back or put in an appearance when it mattered but … And you? How are you?’

I shrug my shoulders. I should still be crying but I think I’ve been drained of tears tonight. Nothing has been levelled out, questions still line my brain like tissue paper. I change the subject for some sense of release.

‘So did Gia enjoy the dancing?’

Dad looks at me for a while. He knows when not to dig, he knows that I’m the sort who in time will come forth with how I feel but first I like to file through my head and come to resolutions of my own accord; twenty years of seeing me through my teens has taught him that much. He smiles at me.

‘She’s quite graceful. Ned took a liking to her.’

‘He would. The pervy old twat. Did you finally ask Alma to dance tonight?’

He goes through my drawers and finds the spoons nestled amongst the children’s cutlery. He pours the water over the teabags and steeps them for just long enough.

‘You know, there’s been talk. Apparently, she drove her last husband to drink and her hair smells of Horlicks.’

I laugh under my breath. He goes to the fridge, glancing at the list on the door before opening it to retrieve the milk.

‘Any closer to finding this dish you’re gonna prepare then?’

I look at him as he splashes just enough milk into the cup, stirring it in and clinking the spoon on the side of the cup three times like he always does. There are so many questions for Dad too. Was there a reason Mum felt so stifled? Why didn’t you remarry? Do you still love her? But as much as I can fire the questions at him, I know deep down none of this was ever his fault. He just did what he was supposed to do. He had his moments like any parent (he left Ben in a Tesco once; he thought tinned peaches was an unacceptable dinner). But he was there. Always there.

‘I was thinking, well, hoping, you could teach me how to cook your chilli. Maybe I could do that.’

He looks at me and smiles, before putting his hand in mine as we sip our tea in perfect silence.